Burned
by star wars for Jesus
Summary: In this prequel to "Sins of the Fathers", a restless Obi-Wan Kenobi must choose between upholding the Jedi Code and his clandestine lover, Satine Kryze (Note: While I tried to keep some things as vague as possible, there is a little bit of implied PG-13 content.).


"_A departure from principle in one instance becomes a precedent for a second; that second for a third; and so on."—Thomas Jefferson_

Lines—when you first draw them, they're clear. Flawless. Transparent as ice, the glassy rivers flowing true.

But as the years toll on and the sand drips, slips through the sieve, you begin to notice just how blurry things have become. Your line isn't quite so neat, isn't nearly as solid and sure as it was the day you drew it. It's lost definition, its edges coalescing with the rest of reality, mingling with it till they're totally indistinguishable. Till they've lost their individuality, melding into one twisted, gnarled truth that's all lies and masks.

And the moment I draw my own line, etching its form into the soft earth of the unseen, I sense that it's already fading into obscurity. Its outline is dwindling, edges rising to waft away with the breeze. Is becoming one with what it should never have bonded to, shouldn't have dripped, dripped, slipped through the same mewling sieve.

My line muddies as I find myself here, the whispers of the lies I told Qui-Gon looming tall. Because I'm not simply anxious, am not pacing the opulent halls of Satine's palace to wash away worry's cloying stench. I'm not restless, thoughts churning violently within my oh-so-tired mind, worn synapses bursting comets. And even if I am experiencing any of those things, am roiling within like a butterfly caught in a solar storm, it's only a symptom of what I'm truly feeling. What I've felt for a while now, what's been gnawing at the delicate tendrils of my soul.

I feel _empty_.

It's not that I'm unhappy or anything—far from it. I've found things here I'd never thought I'd taste, savoring them long and deep with every waking breath. And for once in my life, I've seen hints of normalcy, felt what it's like to be a regular being-what I'd be if I weren't a Jedi, if I were real and tangible and _here_.

So it's…ah, never mind. Placing feelings is difficult, like putting words to things beyond them. Like trying to number stars, only to discover you can't fully know yourself, much less the great, ebony canvas spreading above.

But maybe…

Maybe she's awake.

Straightening my simple tunic, I pick my way tentatively down the hall. Her room's only three or four down from mine, so it's relatively easy to locate; the challenge, on the other hand, is getting _in_ without drawing unwanted attention. With Qui-Gon's room directly adjacent to hers, any sounds issuing from here will reach his ears, alerting him to my presence…and perhaps my secret. The terrible, beautiful thing I keep pressed inside my heart-of-hearts, its walls pulsing and pleading to be released.

I'm in love with _her_, Satine Kryze.

At the back of my mind, both conscience and the Jedi Code scream that this is wrong, is all black and no in-betweens. No attachments. No lovers. No families Release all you hold dear, allow it to filter through the sieve, and forget to feel.

But feeling is living, I've learned. It's how you realize you're alive, that you have a heart and matching, dancing pulse, and it's inescapable. Inevitable. Because one day, all of us will have to stand on the precipice, legs ready to make whatever leap we've chosen.

So I numb the guilt, pushing it to the dusty corners of my subconscious, and gently tap at her door. "Satine?"

Something rustles behind the door before its slides open, revealing Satine's slender, almost ethereal frame. Tonight she's clad in a scarlet, billowy robe belted securely at her narrow waist, and judging by how damp her hair looks, I'd say she's recently taken a shower. I even glimpse water droplets rolling down her fair skin, gliding across it in clear, glass-like beads from her neck to what's visible of her chest…and whatever lies under the robe.

She blinks up at me, a bemused smile spreading her thin lips. "Not that I'm not pleased or anything, but…what are you doing here, Obi-Wan?"

Wrenching my gaze from the glass-bead's lurid road, I shrug. "Can't sleep. You?"

She runs a hand through her damp, stringy hair. "Not at all. I just finished taking a shower half an hour ago, but it didn't help me get a wink of sleep." She steps aside, gesturing inside her tiny dorm. "I know it's late, but…"

I move to slip in beside her, to rush into the warmth and embraces with my sieve wide-open, then I pause. Hesitate. This doesn't feel right, my conscience heavy with cloying, slimy grunge. Doesn't seem moral, even after I've stuffed most of my guilt to places unseen. Rarely touched. "I…I'm not sure about this, Satine. Maybe I should—"

She shoots me a pointed look. "I'm not asking you to spend the night, Obi-Wan. I just want to talk for a little while. Alone." She nods toward Qui-Gon's door, looming silently past my shoulder. "You don't want _him_ waking anytime soon, do you?"

"I suppose not," I admit, smiling faintly.

"Then what're you waiting for?"

Behind my dancing eyes, my conscience stings. Bites. Kicks, lashing out in what can only be described as a death throw.

And I welcome it. I drink it in, letting it trickle softly to the floor, roll off my skin like Satine's water-glass-beads. Smile faintly as it slowly ebbs, and slip into the room with only my conscience's fading whispers.

Or the echoes of whispers.

Closing the door behind me, Satine nods to a cot, its blocky shape tucked neatly into the room's far left corner. "Go ahead—be my guest. Sit. Make yourself at home."

A stubborn glass-bead once more bites, clamping down hard. "I'd rather stand, really…"

Clucking her tongue, Satine takes my hands, clasping them in her velvet palms. But her touch feels—different. Hotter, as if she's burning, searing through my very flesh. Will consume me, devouring me with lupine voracity. "I mean this in the most affection way possible, Obi-Wan, but you're being an idiot. We've been together nearly six months, and yet you still seem so…cold. Distant." She reaches out, hands cupping my face. Meets my gaze, eyes searching mine. And lingering, lingering, _burning _me…with both. "Be honest with me: did someone…did something happen in your past that you're not telling me?"

Closing my eyes, I let my head rest in her hands. Yes. Yes, something _did_ happen: I was born a karking Jedi, condemned by a baseless Code to freeze when I should thaw, when I should melt in diamond-clear rivers. In beads luscious and plump, like the fat droplets rolling toward…

Eyes peeling open, I shake my head. "No, no. I was just…afraid I might fall asleep or something. Lead the way, _Sat'ika."_

Letting her hands drop to her sides, Satine gives me a playful look. "You've been brushing up on your Mando, Ben. Sooner or later, you'll be fluent."

A tiny smile crossing my lips, I watch Satine plop down on the cot, its softness greeting her like a child's whisper. This…this is exactly what I've needed. This moment, the frame set in time's stretching track, is what will fill the sieve. Make it overflow, suffuse all else with mirth unspeakable.

Because maybe she's the one to fill my void.

She sends me a questioning look. "What?"

"It's just that…" I open my mouth to spill out the mirth, but I cut myself off. No, I'm not quite filled. Not yet, anyway, so I settle in beside her and try again. "Why do you call me 'Ben'?"

"Because you sort of strike me as one," she replies. She leans in, head resting on my shoulder like it's forever belonged. "And I know this sounds dumb, but I like the sound of it, too. _Ben Kenobi_—sounds like a hero's name, doesn't it?"

Craning my neck slightly, I let my lips linger on her hair, drinking in its light, flowery aroma. "Sounds more like the name of a lonely sage to me. Or a complete lunatic."

Her head lifts up, angling to brush my cheek with hers. "And whoever said lonely sages can't be heroes? People who don't have anyone left in their lives, who've chosen solitude or have had it thrust upon them by tragedy, are usually the ones who've done the universe the most good."

"Because they've nothing to lose?"

She shows me a sad little smile. "Because they've opened their eyes to see there are still things left to hope in—things beyond sight, beyond even the physical realm."

I place a finger under her chin, tilting her head back gently to meet my gaze. "So I'm not your hero, then?"

"Perhaps. But you still have people in your life, beings who love you." Her hand rests on my chest, lingering there like smoky haze. "You still have me."

Against my better judgment, I allow my fingers to play with the lapel of her robe, idly tracing its plunging edges. "And vice versa."

Nodding, she leans further in, lips skimming my neck. For a moment, I wonder if she's just going to let them remain, their silkiness pressed to my cold skin—but then she moves. Touches her mouth to mine, hands opening my own lapel. Spreading it wide so that my tunic slips down, past my shoulders and chest.

Casually, I shrug the thing off. "It was, uh, getting hot in here, I guess."

"Agreed."

And then we're falling, plummeting toward smearing boundaries, the blurred, evanescent lines. We are comets, arcing high over unlit worlds, bringing light to them with our fiery tails. Obliterating morals and the burning sieve as we collide, falling back onto the mattress in a tangle of greedy lips and limbs. Of shedding hides and mingling skin, numb to the light of innocence's struggling flame.

And as we continue to spiral down, I realize the flames have all but gone out.

But it's still there, right? Wrong. I close my eyes, try to escape Satine's torrent to breathe, and realize that whatever is left of my conscience has been frozen. Ensnared with bitter cold while the rest of me burns.

As the flames reach their peak, I remember belatedly that love shouldn't burn. It should consume, make hearts thrum wildly behind skeleton cages. Bring blood alive with what the eyes could never see, never hope or fathom—but it shouldn't bring flame. Love—true love—will settle for freezing, for holding back the torrent before the inferno laps up the sieve.

So my conscience hasn't been frozen, then. It isn't all ice, the veritable tundra spreading within. It's past that point, really—and it's beyond thawing, too. Beyond the release that could have freed it, saved it from taking this lurid path.

In this spinning, off-kilter moment, my conscience has died.

When we finally stop falling, have burnt through the comet-tails and disintegrate in the sea, I let my head sag into Satine's pillow. Is this really how it ends for me, the naïve padawan who choked on the forbidden fruit? Is this how I forget I'm a Jedi, how the future I held so dear is snuffed out?

Is this how I stop being Obi-Wan?

Beside me, Satine's frail, child-like fingers graze my cheek. "Something's wrong, isn't it?"

Rolling to face her, I want to say yes. Badly. But when all has been read and forgotten, my soul knows that it's not the galaxy that's been mangled and torn, rendered lifeless by something that should bring hope.

I have.

Sheets pulled to my waist, I push myself to a sitting position. "I have to go."

Hurt flashes in her pastel gaze. "Why?"

"Just because."

Pulling on my rumpled clothes, I race back into the hall. I no longer care if Qui-Gon hears me, if he knows what I did or the null, empty reasons I did it for; because honestly, his involvement might help things. His gaze, all warm hazel and disappointment, might remind parts of me that I can still feel something. That there's still a part that will sting, protesting to the gaping wounds.

But instead of Qui-Gon's presence ambling down the hall, I sense only Satine. She feels…frenetic. Addled. So I stop in my tracks, cocking my head back to glimpse her face in the dim light.

Then I look away, focusing on some distant, inscrutable shape. "I thought I'd made it clear I didn't want—"

Her robe—she must've donned it again after I'd left—swishes quietly as she reaches my side. "I know. I…just want to let you know that I'm sorry. That shouldn't have happened, Obi-Wan, and I'm sorry I didn't stop it before things got…out of hand."

"I could've stopped it, too," I point out, stepping away.

"Anyone can stop anything, Obi-Wan. But that doesn't mean they always do."

"And no one can unmake a poor decision."

"Well, I wouldn't say _that_…but that's a completely different subject."I feel her gaze on my back, its gossamer down trying to dissolve my barriers. "Can I…tell you a secret?"

Glancing at her over my shoulder, I frown. There really aren't that many secrets left between us, aren't many skeleton left to stalk our respective closets. Not after tonight, at least; we now know each other intimately, in the deepest possible sense of the word. There is no part of her that remains an enigma, no curve or line that I haven't read and reread—and the same is probably true for her. "Do I really want to know this?"

"Probably not," she admits, deflated. She draws in a long, unsteady breath. "But you still need to hear it, regardless. I…"

Her secret tumbles out into open air, indelible, but I don't catch a word of it. I'm too preoccupied, drowning in a world separate from this one. And as hard as I try, struggling to grasp the pathways between realms, I can't make it back. I can't reach the here-and-now, the unfathomably precious gift of the present. Can't see it, even though looking heralds living.

And it's that moment, when I'm blind to else in miracle-reality, that I see it. The lines—they weren't blurred, sullied by the winds of my own choosing. They weren't smeared, blotted out by a conscience in its death throes; in fact, they never were. They were there all along, watching, guiding, directing, and would've saved me from burning if I'd only seen them.

If I'd only _looked._

So I look for them now, eyes straining through rising tendrils of smoke. They're there, I think, hovering about somewhere far-off, unreachable. Unattainable. But regardless, they're still there; closing my eyes, I catch one of their voices whisper something, unraveling all my scorch-marks.

_The morning forgets all, Obi-Wan Kenobi. It makes things new, shiny, fresh. Remakes _all _things, even the things that cannot be unmade._

As Satine cries silently into my chest, I catch a glimpse of bleeding sunrise, filtering through a distant window. No, this night cannot be unmade. It will be forever here, looming above us like storm clouds—but we can choose to make something out of this. We can forge a new path, a brighter one. One where mistakes aren't simply unmade, winking out from existence.

One that lies in a new day.

_Lamentations 3:22-23: Because of the LORD's great love we are not consumed, for His compassions never fail. They are new every morning; great is Your faithfulness._


End file.
